Well, it’s time for another story. I know my legion of fans has been disappointed that my career has been in haitus. I apologize to my faithful readers, but remember, your subscription is still free. Even with my soaring costs, < i. e. postal increase early 1991 > your subscription is still free. That is an offer you can’t refuse.
Lately my mailbox has been deluged with many letters from my fans. I thought we would hear from some of our readers today. The first letter is from a Ms. Olga from San Francisco:
“Really enjoyed your story on McDonalds. I never worked there but my brother did. I am now a wee bit more careful before biting into my favorite McDonald’s sandwich. I look for hair, dust, roach entails and any other foreign material inside the bun before indulging. Also, our last visit to McDonald’s last Sunday confirmed the notion that black people only eat fish fillet sandwiches. A Black family of four was munching on fish fillets and orange drinks. What synchronicity! Can’t wait for the follow-up. Please more stories of this kind!"
Dear Olga, Yes, it is true that African Americans like fish fillets and orange drinks. And strawberry milkshakes-no chocolate. Probably why at H.W. that chocolate chess pie and chocolate pie were not big sellers. Back inna day they also pronounced the "t" in fillet. And blacks liked cheeseburgers-not too many indulged in plain old hamburgers. Sure these are generalities and politically correct it ain't, but it was the truth 95% of the time. And as Walter Cronkite used to lament, "And that's the way it was." Thanks, Olga. Btw, Since you hail from northern California, would you happen to lean towards the left?
A Martin Cordina, also from Northern California, wrote this past week: “Loved that story about your Aunt Mad. What a hoot. However my Aunt Matilda could give Madeline a run for her money. Aunt Mat once peed for 3 minutes and five seconds one Saturday afternoon on our way back from San Anton. I had recently been given a stop watch for Christmas, and I timed her. Coincidently, she used the expression “sqeeze my sponge.” I thought Aunt Mat was the one who coined that phrase. What gives?”
Dear Martin, Yeah, right. Aunt Mad was the real deal and coined the phrase "squeeze my sponge." Your Aunt Mat is an imposter. You will soon be hearing from my lawyer. Copyright infringement, eh? Btw, do you know an Olga who lives in the liberal city by the Bay.?
A Babe G. from Edowah Diddley also wrote this week. “Your story on the Catfish’s 1990 Christmas really pulled at my heart strings. But a grown man sitting on a whoopee cushion is a bit much. You need to grow up. And making fun of your mother-in-law, who seems like a really sweet and together individual, is indefensible. I may cancel my subscription. You're the one who's grumpy. And I don't slurp my tea."
Dear Babe: Grumpy is as grumpy does. And, yes, you do slurp your tea. And the way you eat the food on your plate-carefully manipulating each morsel into a dress rehearsal reminiscent of a Broadway play grates on my last nerve. But I still love ya.
A Ruby B from Pond Jovi writes: “You are the best writer since Hemmingway. You have a way with words that is unrivaled in this century, maybe forever. Faulkner would be envious. Lewis Grizzard, take a back seat. I think you should charge for your column. The sky’s the limit. Your work reminds me of an early Plato. Keep up the good work. Charge for your services.........”
Dear Mom, er, Ruby: Thanks for the kind words. But you forgot Twain and Shakespeare.
A Fred B., ironically from Pond Jovi, wrote also. [ not sure if he and Ruby B. are related ] “Enjoy reading your column. Sometimes I’m confused with hizzoner Mayor Fred B. of Golden Pond. Does that ever happen to you? Reallly enjoyed your story on McDonalds. I have quit eating there since reading your column. I now only eat at Whackadilly Cafeteria. Could you do an investigative piece on Whackadilly and see if it’s safe to eat there? I’ve heard that some people have found grassshoppers in their turnup greens and pieces of cardboard in their broccoli. Is this true?.......”
Dear Fred: Last year a guest found parts of a rat in a bowl of turnip greens. I report you decide, but tell me how rat parts [ tail, thigh, stomach ] and turnip greens could co-exist in one tiny bowl. And green worms have been found in the fresh broccoli. Which is better than cardboard, eh? Protein, ya know. I, personally, will never step foot in another Whackadilly Cafeteria. Whose new motto is: "Living La Dilly, Loca."
A Kitty C. wrote in these comments. “Burst at the seams reading your hilarious story about running out of gas in the middle of winter. Hilarious is the word. I can relate to that story. Having to wake the kids, who just went to sleep, just to go get a bonehead husband was a riot. Hope that story wins the Pulitzer. Can’t wait for the next one..........”
Well, fans, the story you eagerly awaited for is here. The hiatus is over. And thank you for writing my column today. And unless Ruby B. has her way, your subscription is still free.
The above story was written circa 1991 on an Apple 2 C computer. And added onto/embellished in 2006. Happy New Year. From v.c. and the clan!
Saturday, December 31, 2005
"Dr. Kimble?"
I watched "The Fugitive" last nite on the groove tube*-the one with Harrison Ford. I remember seeing it at the Bijou when it first came out. The opening sequences involving the train smashing into the prison bus was worth the price of admission. In fact, I clearly remember saying to my family-which included liberal sis, Olga, from San Fran:
"Wow. That [ crash ] is worth the price of admission."
As most people know, Dr. Sam Sheppard [ pictured above ] was the inspiration for the 60's tv show.
This much is certain: Marilyn Sheppard was brutally beaten to death. Sam Sheppard served 10 years in the Ohio Penitentiary for her murder, only to be freed by a landmark Supreme Court ruling. And, 35 years after the murder, young Sam Sheppard began a crusade to clear his father's name and bring to justice the man he believed killed his mother
P.S. *Apologies to Chevy Chase
Thursday, December 29, 2005
"Ed. Is Tired and Sleepy"
The Green Hornet. A tv show that ran in the late 60's. Of which I was a participant, well, viewer. Does anyone recall that the masked crimefighter's sidekick and chauffeur was none other than Bruce Lee?
"Pee"
Another foray from back inna day. If memory serves, I fancied myself as the next Louie Grizzard, weaving my daily adventures of life onto the printed page. Alas, I was not privy to ascend the throne. Here's "Pee" which is submitted for your approval and perusal. Seems, in hindsight, I had a thing for one word titles:
I was riding down the road the other day listening to the AM radio station and cruising in my 98 when the low fuel light came on unexpectedly. That distinctive chime I’ve heard so many times. I never like to buy gas ahead of time. Only at the last minute. On anything, really. From clothes to shoes to petrol. I’m just like that. In a way it’s a curse. I’ll run out of gas maybe once a year. The last time being the worst.
It was winter. The first artic blow had just descended on Pond Jovi. Those cold Canadian winds were breezing their way through the city, as I was heading home from a grueling day at work. Murphy’s Law was about to be acted out on Golden Pond Interstate when my motorized vehicle went kaput. I was in the van [ my old Street Van by Dodge-see Lee Iacocca who disavowed the lineage, which probaby got a kool and the gang 10 miles per gallon ] which had no chime. I don’t know if they had such a thing in 1977. Stranded a mile from the nearest exit and the wind chill factor had to be a minus 100.
I walked the mile sometimes running. Dejected, depressed and mumbling expletives that froze in the air, I finally made it to a motel at the end of the ramp. I called Kitty to come get me. That’s always the hardest part. Calling the wife to let her know you screwed up again.
“Come get me,” I said trying not to sound wimpy. “I did it again.”
The motel was full of undesirable types ranging from druggies to prostitutes. I talked to the security guard as I waited for Kitty. He told me various horror stories about life in the motel. The 98 with my family in tow soon pulled up. I was safe again.
Anyway back to the original story. Me and the 98 were purring down the road when the chime made its melodic sound. Even though the car has about 5 gallons in the tank at the chime's first sounding, I don’t take as many chances as I used to, especially in the winter. It was the end of summer this time so I must be getting better. I pulled into the station and proceeded to pump the gas. $1.38 a gallon. What happened to the good old days when Ethyl was around a $1.00 a gallon? Please see Suddam Hussein.
I had just enjoyed a chicken sandwich, two cole slaws, french fries and an extra large coke. I had to pee something fierce.
“Where’s the bathroom?,” I asked the attendant. I had the gas pumping on automatic engage.
She hesitated for a minute. “Uh, we don’t have one.”
I guess she pees in her pants and carries a diaper for the big one. Or has her own private bathroom.
It galls me no end to buy gas and not be able to use the bathroom. I was tempted to go around to the side of the building or find some grassy spot [ noll ] and let my pee fly. I was not quite in an emergency situation but I was getting close.
I walked back out to the car. The automatic pilot had stopped at $6.48. The tank would hold much more. I tried to restart it. Luckily it wouldn’t. I wanted to call out to the lady to start the process again but then common sense took over. I don’t want to patronize a place that has no bathroom for its customers. I paid the bill and drove across the street.
Jay was of foreign descent. The gas pump was once again on automatic pilot.
“Where’s the bathroom, Jay?” I asked. He pointed. “Outside or inside?”
“Inside.” Jay wasn’t very talkative.
I mosied to the corner of the convenience store and tried to open the door but it was jammed. I pushed harder but the john was occupied. A lady employee was taking a dump or pee.
Suprised I could only manage, “Sorry about that sports fans!”
Soon she was through. [ squeezing her sponge ( couldn't help the ad lib ) ] I thanked Jay and paid the $14.00 vowing never to go to a place that sells gas and has no bathroom.
I cranked the car. The needle zoomed to full. The chime was silent. The AM radio came on loud and clear. Kathy Fishburger was laughing hysterically about something funny she had said. I put the car on automatic pilot waiting for the next chime alert, and, of course, the body was on alert, too, waiting for the next nature alert.
I was riding down the road the other day listening to the AM radio station and cruising in my 98 when the low fuel light came on unexpectedly. That distinctive chime I’ve heard so many times. I never like to buy gas ahead of time. Only at the last minute. On anything, really. From clothes to shoes to petrol. I’m just like that. In a way it’s a curse. I’ll run out of gas maybe once a year. The last time being the worst.
It was winter. The first artic blow had just descended on Pond Jovi. Those cold Canadian winds were breezing their way through the city, as I was heading home from a grueling day at work. Murphy’s Law was about to be acted out on Golden Pond Interstate when my motorized vehicle went kaput. I was in the van [ my old Street Van by Dodge-see Lee Iacocca who disavowed the lineage, which probaby got a kool and the gang 10 miles per gallon ] which had no chime. I don’t know if they had such a thing in 1977. Stranded a mile from the nearest exit and the wind chill factor had to be a minus 100.
I walked the mile sometimes running. Dejected, depressed and mumbling expletives that froze in the air, I finally made it to a motel at the end of the ramp. I called Kitty to come get me. That’s always the hardest part. Calling the wife to let her know you screwed up again.
“Come get me,” I said trying not to sound wimpy. “I did it again.”
The motel was full of undesirable types ranging from druggies to prostitutes. I talked to the security guard as I waited for Kitty. He told me various horror stories about life in the motel. The 98 with my family in tow soon pulled up. I was safe again.
Anyway back to the original story. Me and the 98 were purring down the road when the chime made its melodic sound. Even though the car has about 5 gallons in the tank at the chime's first sounding, I don’t take as many chances as I used to, especially in the winter. It was the end of summer this time so I must be getting better. I pulled into the station and proceeded to pump the gas. $1.38 a gallon. What happened to the good old days when Ethyl was around a $1.00 a gallon? Please see Suddam Hussein.
I had just enjoyed a chicken sandwich, two cole slaws, french fries and an extra large coke. I had to pee something fierce.
“Where’s the bathroom?,” I asked the attendant. I had the gas pumping on automatic engage.
She hesitated for a minute. “Uh, we don’t have one.”
I guess she pees in her pants and carries a diaper for the big one. Or has her own private bathroom.
It galls me no end to buy gas and not be able to use the bathroom. I was tempted to go around to the side of the building or find some grassy spot [ noll ] and let my pee fly. I was not quite in an emergency situation but I was getting close.
I walked back out to the car. The automatic pilot had stopped at $6.48. The tank would hold much more. I tried to restart it. Luckily it wouldn’t. I wanted to call out to the lady to start the process again but then common sense took over. I don’t want to patronize a place that has no bathroom for its customers. I paid the bill and drove across the street.
Jay was of foreign descent. The gas pump was once again on automatic pilot.
“Where’s the bathroom, Jay?” I asked. He pointed. “Outside or inside?”
“Inside.” Jay wasn’t very talkative.
I mosied to the corner of the convenience store and tried to open the door but it was jammed. I pushed harder but the john was occupied. A lady employee was taking a dump or pee.
Suprised I could only manage, “Sorry about that sports fans!”
Soon she was through. [ squeezing her sponge ( couldn't help the ad lib ) ] I thanked Jay and paid the $14.00 vowing never to go to a place that sells gas and has no bathroom.
I cranked the car. The needle zoomed to full. The chime was silent. The AM radio came on loud and clear. Kathy Fishburger was laughing hysterically about something funny she had said. I put the car on automatic pilot waiting for the next chime alert, and, of course, the body was on alert, too, waiting for the next nature alert.
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
"Dean and Me"
When I was a kid growing up my favourite comedian was Jerry Lewis. My Aunt Mad said he was silly. He may have been silly, but he was funny as hell to me. I missed the Martin/Lewis movies-a little before my time. Plus I was more absorbed in watching flicks like "I Was A Teenage Werewolf" with Mike Landon; and "The Mummy" with Peter Cushing; and "It Came From Beneath the Sea."
I did see their movies when I got older. Saw 'em on "Saturday Night at the Movies." Anybody remember that show? And they were funny as hell and Jerry made 'em.
So when Kitty asked me what I wanted for Christmas a few weeks ago, I told her to get me "Dean and Me." She delivered-the book was under the tree. It's an easy read but very interesting. Fate seemed to have brought them together allah acts that came before and after.
I'm at the part in the book where they travel to Hollywood after signing a contract with Hal Wallis and Paramount Studios.
Because I don't have an ending....
Monday, December 26, 2005
"Chistmas"
Our story takes place in 1990. Back during the prehistoric days of yore. The kids are toddlers and my mother-in-law is grumpy. Some things never change, eh? Here's Christmas with the Catfish Clan which is submitted for....
Well it’s time for another story. It’s December 26 and, yes, it’s time once again for “Christmas on The Pond, circa 1990.”
Christmas Eve I was all snug as a bug in a rug. I din’t have to work. This was a headline itself. I checked out the limited selections at the Blackbuster Video Store and came up with “Uncle Buck” and the classic “North by Northwest.” After a visit to the local supermarket where I encountered the slowest check-out cashier in recent memory, we headed home. Kitty, Charlie jr. and Katlain. And, me, v.c.
Babe was at the house waiting for us. Babe is my mother-in-law. She was a little grumpy today. I gave her a big hug, nevertheless, and settled down in my worn-out chair. The one that is slowly self-destructing. It’s still comfy even though Kitty wants to throw it away. Or hide it from plain sight.
I turned on the VCR to watch my Alfred Hitchcock movie and hoping to view it uninterupted and to rest after the grueling encounter at the check-out line.
“Oh, my mind isn’t working good at all,” the cashier complained as she tried to ring up my 14 cans of cat food.
“What is this?” she asked sympathetically, the green pear stretched out in her hand.
“Avacodo,” I mumbled. Wouldn’t Olga and Martin get a hoot out of that one? [ My sis and her husband who live in Northern California ]
She kept asking the fast check-out lady next to her for instructions. Twenty minutes elapsed and it was time for the coupons to close out the transtraction.
$17.25. That’s pretty good.” she responded after totaling them. She was really a sweet person but very slow.
I started to tell her I was the “King of the Coupons” but figured that would take even more time.
“Isn’t that Doctor Spock?” Babe mused as the wiry fellow came into our living room via the big screen.
“No, Babe. That’s Martin Landau.”
“Yeah, Doctor Spock.” She continued confusing Martin Landau with Leonard Nimoy.
I dozed off unexpectedly as Cary Grant was dangling from Mount Rushmore. As I slept visions of the Starship Enterprise with Captain Kirk at the wheel danced into my psyche. I woke up trembling from this nightmare.
Soon it was time for the family outing to have one last last look at the Christmas lights. Katlain didn’t want to go. She was a little grumpy. I wonder who she gets it from? Only after we told her that Santa was still grading her performance for the year, did she agree to go.
Golden Pond Park was decorated to the hilt. Lights everywhere. They even had a crane and school bus loaded with lights. Everyone’s favorite, though, was “Snowflake Lane.” All white lights simulating snowflakes descending from the sky.
“I knew that would be your favorite, Dad,” Charlie jr. bubbled as he was getting full of Christmas Eve.
He had been using a lot of bad words all night. I had encouraged him at first and had laughed at some of his shenanigans, but it was starting to get out of hand. Doo doo this and doo doo that. We brought up the Santa grading system and again how Santa might not come see him. He became worried. It was Christmas Eve. He couldn’t take any chances now. He became an angel again in the twinkling of an eye, and we headed home.
We laid the toys out that Santa would bring. All kinds of goodies. The little boys went to sleep with Babe, and I dozed off watching George Baily realize “What a Wonderful Life” he really had.
Charlie woke at 7. Kitty shorly thereafter. They woke me up from my golden slumber as Spock was being beamed up by Scotty. Babe was still grumpy.
“I woke up at 2:00,” she said. “It was so hot upstairs and Brandy, Charlie, and Katlain hogged all the room in the bed.” [ Brandy was one of our dogs pre Atlassie and Penny ]
Our little kids saw their toys and things that Santa had left them. Christmas was officially here and it don’t get no better than this. Smiles and happiness pervaded the air. Except for Grumpy Babe.
editor's note: The story rambles on about Uncle Francois, Kitty's brother, being late for Christmas breakfast. But because he brings firewood, we don't say anything. And how we ate breakfast, and Kitty ruined the scrambled eggs. And Babe was irritatingly grumpy. And slurped her coffee with every gulp. And Uncle Francois received his obligatory underwear and a coppola John Wayne movies. And a whoopee cushion enlivened the festivities. And we bade Uncle Francois adieu, so he could tend to the north forty before dark. And Babe was grumpy....
Well it’s time for another story. It’s December 26 and, yes, it’s time once again for “Christmas on The Pond, circa 1990.”
Christmas Eve I was all snug as a bug in a rug. I din’t have to work. This was a headline itself. I checked out the limited selections at the Blackbuster Video Store and came up with “Uncle Buck” and the classic “North by Northwest.” After a visit to the local supermarket where I encountered the slowest check-out cashier in recent memory, we headed home. Kitty, Charlie jr. and Katlain. And, me, v.c.
Babe was at the house waiting for us. Babe is my mother-in-law. She was a little grumpy today. I gave her a big hug, nevertheless, and settled down in my worn-out chair. The one that is slowly self-destructing. It’s still comfy even though Kitty wants to throw it away. Or hide it from plain sight.
I turned on the VCR to watch my Alfred Hitchcock movie and hoping to view it uninterupted and to rest after the grueling encounter at the check-out line.
“Oh, my mind isn’t working good at all,” the cashier complained as she tried to ring up my 14 cans of cat food.
“What is this?” she asked sympathetically, the green pear stretched out in her hand.
“Avacodo,” I mumbled. Wouldn’t Olga and Martin get a hoot out of that one? [ My sis and her husband who live in Northern California ]
She kept asking the fast check-out lady next to her for instructions. Twenty minutes elapsed and it was time for the coupons to close out the transtraction.
$17.25. That’s pretty good.” she responded after totaling them. She was really a sweet person but very slow.
I started to tell her I was the “King of the Coupons” but figured that would take even more time.
“Isn’t that Doctor Spock?” Babe mused as the wiry fellow came into our living room via the big screen.
“No, Babe. That’s Martin Landau.”
“Yeah, Doctor Spock.” She continued confusing Martin Landau with Leonard Nimoy.
I dozed off unexpectedly as Cary Grant was dangling from Mount Rushmore. As I slept visions of the Starship Enterprise with Captain Kirk at the wheel danced into my psyche. I woke up trembling from this nightmare.
Soon it was time for the family outing to have one last last look at the Christmas lights. Katlain didn’t want to go. She was a little grumpy. I wonder who she gets it from? Only after we told her that Santa was still grading her performance for the year, did she agree to go.
Golden Pond Park was decorated to the hilt. Lights everywhere. They even had a crane and school bus loaded with lights. Everyone’s favorite, though, was “Snowflake Lane.” All white lights simulating snowflakes descending from the sky.
“I knew that would be your favorite, Dad,” Charlie jr. bubbled as he was getting full of Christmas Eve.
He had been using a lot of bad words all night. I had encouraged him at first and had laughed at some of his shenanigans, but it was starting to get out of hand. Doo doo this and doo doo that. We brought up the Santa grading system and again how Santa might not come see him. He became worried. It was Christmas Eve. He couldn’t take any chances now. He became an angel again in the twinkling of an eye, and we headed home.
We laid the toys out that Santa would bring. All kinds of goodies. The little boys went to sleep with Babe, and I dozed off watching George Baily realize “What a Wonderful Life” he really had.
Charlie woke at 7. Kitty shorly thereafter. They woke me up from my golden slumber as Spock was being beamed up by Scotty. Babe was still grumpy.
“I woke up at 2:00,” she said. “It was so hot upstairs and Brandy, Charlie, and Katlain hogged all the room in the bed.” [ Brandy was one of our dogs pre Atlassie and Penny ]
Our little kids saw their toys and things that Santa had left them. Christmas was officially here and it don’t get no better than this. Smiles and happiness pervaded the air. Except for Grumpy Babe.
editor's note: The story rambles on about Uncle Francois, Kitty's brother, being late for Christmas breakfast. But because he brings firewood, we don't say anything. And how we ate breakfast, and Kitty ruined the scrambled eggs. And Babe was irritatingly grumpy. And slurped her coffee with every gulp. And Uncle Francois received his obligatory underwear and a coppola John Wayne movies. And a whoopee cushion enlivened the festivities. And we bade Uncle Francois adieu, so he could tend to the north forty before dark. And Babe was grumpy....
"Cole Slaw"
Another foray from back in the day. Cholesterol, smesterol. Our story tonite was written before anyone knew about cholesterol. Now a 4 letter word. Submitted for....
Everyone loves cole slaw? It happens to be one of my favorite foods. It goes good with most meals. Barbecue in particular; fish and french fries where you can dip your hushpuppies in its juice. Cole slaw and hamburger; it makes a great topping along with mustard or ketchup. Slaw dogs- I grew up eating those at the local Dairy Queen. Most people would prefer a chili dog but not me. Make mine smothered in cole slaw. Alternate bites with thick crusty onion rings. OOh la la.
Cole slaw with chicken, even roast beef. The list goes on and on. Cole slaw is relatively easy to make. Start with a head of cabbage. Finely shredded or coarse, either was is fine with me. Add gobs of mayonaise and a tiny smooch of vinegar and you are in buisness. Some folks, although it takes some doing, can mess up this delicacy. Even though my mom is the greatest cook this side of Julia Child, cole slaw has escaped her expertise. Growing up with her slaw was painful.
She would deter from the basic ingredients already mentioned. Hers wasn’t a mayonnaisy slaw; it was a vinegary slaw with little black dots mixed liberally throughout. I assumed this was some sort of spice that was in there to make it taste better. Assumed is the key word.
I think her cole slaw was sweet, too. Like maybe she put a lot of sugar in it. Cole slaw ain’t supposed to be sweet; it’s supposed to be SOUR. Mom, you are the bomb and you are the best cook, but you need pointers on cole slaw.
At the cafeteria where I am employed, we have different kinds of slaw. Cole slaw with cream and cream slaw are my favorites. I must admit the cream slaw is a tad sweet, but there are exceptions to every rule. We also have an Italian slaw, pickled cabbage ( similar to you-know-who ), and a spanish slaw. The former slaws are our biggest sellers. Most bypass the pickled cabbage. There is a message here.
As the years pass by, my affinity for cole slaw increases. I can indulge on said item at least three or four times a week, cos there is never a chance of burn-out. In closing I will divulge my secret recipe. Great with hamburgers, barbecue, chicken, you name it. Bon appetit.
v.c.'s Cole Slaw OFFICIAL RECIPE
One Quarter Head Cabbage
Gobs of Mayonnaise
Smooch of Vinegar ( Must be White, never Wine )
Directions: Finely shred or coarsely shred cabbage. Put in big mixing bowl. Add the gobs of mayonnaise. Next add a smooch of vinegar. Mix all the ingredients until you can barely see the cabbage for the mayonnaise. Taste. Enjoy. Selah.
P.S. I think it was my Aunt Madeline who turned me on to this delighful concoction. No one made it better. And could she cook a mean burger, loaded with onions! And iced tea in a tall glass. Break out some cabbage; my mouth’s awatering.
P.S.S. I gotta go with the coarse-cut.
Everyone loves cole slaw? It happens to be one of my favorite foods. It goes good with most meals. Barbecue in particular; fish and french fries where you can dip your hushpuppies in its juice. Cole slaw and hamburger; it makes a great topping along with mustard or ketchup. Slaw dogs- I grew up eating those at the local Dairy Queen. Most people would prefer a chili dog but not me. Make mine smothered in cole slaw. Alternate bites with thick crusty onion rings. OOh la la.
Cole slaw with chicken, even roast beef. The list goes on and on. Cole slaw is relatively easy to make. Start with a head of cabbage. Finely shredded or coarse, either was is fine with me. Add gobs of mayonaise and a tiny smooch of vinegar and you are in buisness. Some folks, although it takes some doing, can mess up this delicacy. Even though my mom is the greatest cook this side of Julia Child, cole slaw has escaped her expertise. Growing up with her slaw was painful.
She would deter from the basic ingredients already mentioned. Hers wasn’t a mayonnaisy slaw; it was a vinegary slaw with little black dots mixed liberally throughout. I assumed this was some sort of spice that was in there to make it taste better. Assumed is the key word.
I think her cole slaw was sweet, too. Like maybe she put a lot of sugar in it. Cole slaw ain’t supposed to be sweet; it’s supposed to be SOUR. Mom, you are the bomb and you are the best cook, but you need pointers on cole slaw.
At the cafeteria where I am employed, we have different kinds of slaw. Cole slaw with cream and cream slaw are my favorites. I must admit the cream slaw is a tad sweet, but there are exceptions to every rule. We also have an Italian slaw, pickled cabbage ( similar to you-know-who ), and a spanish slaw. The former slaws are our biggest sellers. Most bypass the pickled cabbage. There is a message here.
As the years pass by, my affinity for cole slaw increases. I can indulge on said item at least three or four times a week, cos there is never a chance of burn-out. In closing I will divulge my secret recipe. Great with hamburgers, barbecue, chicken, you name it. Bon appetit.
v.c.'s Cole Slaw OFFICIAL RECIPE
One Quarter Head Cabbage
Gobs of Mayonnaise
Smooch of Vinegar ( Must be White, never Wine )
Directions: Finely shred or coarsely shred cabbage. Put in big mixing bowl. Add the gobs of mayonnaise. Next add a smooch of vinegar. Mix all the ingredients until you can barely see the cabbage for the mayonnaise. Taste. Enjoy. Selah.
P.S. I think it was my Aunt Madeline who turned me on to this delighful concoction. No one made it better. And could she cook a mean burger, loaded with onions! And iced tea in a tall glass. Break out some cabbage; my mouth’s awatering.
P.S.S. I gotta go with the coarse-cut.
Saturday, December 24, 2005
"Happy Place"
The following foray was written in the 80's on an Apple 2C computer. I had saved these stories via the modern technological advent of floppy disks. Seems I had a love for the semi-colon as you'll notice while perusing the text. The story involves my working at McDonalds at the tender age of 16. Submitted for your approval and perusal:
I dropped a couple of hamburger buns on the floor. The older gentleman in his fifties noticed my faux pas and reacted quickly. He offered me some fatherly advice.
“Do that again, boy, and you’ll be fired,’ he scowled as he bit down on the pipe that he seldom lit.
“Yes sir,” I countered meekly. That’s all I knew to say; I was a little shy and intimidated by this bastion of authority.
Then he in question was my boss, who also happened to be the owner of the store, Emile Shoeman, a nice Irish name if I ever heard one. We were at the Golden Arches, better known as McDonalds, and it was my first day on the job. I had just turned 16 a few months earlier, and I was the new employee and all the new guys started on the grill, our initiation. We had to toast the buns, twelve at a time. Then dress the burgers. A splotch of mustard and a heavy dose of ketchup. Then a small kosher dill pickle of top of the condiment mess.
They gave me an apron, shirt, and hat and pointed me to the grill. I had been on the job about 10 minutes when I dropped two buns on the floor and Emile was on me faster than stink on the ship.
I was really nervous, now. Emile, however, blew off the buns then wiped them on his trousers and plopped them back on the grill, while muttering his aforementioned soliloquy. I was really learning the secrets to American buisness and how to run a super-duper food cost. You don’t waste nothing in the food industry. And you don’t drop buns on the linoleum when the owner’s looking.
Emile had called me the night before. I had been recommended by my friends Heathcliff Murque and Bobus Bobby Keg, who also worked there, and who were my buddies.
“Start work tommorow,” he said hesitantly. I sensed he thought I’d be a dud, but hired me because of my good references.
I made it through that first night, but in retrospect, I wished I had dropped some more buns, or had done the unmentionable: dropped a few burgers on the floor. It’s hard to blow dirt, hair and grime off a burger that’s landed splat, flat on the greasy tiles. But I’m afraid I was destined to be in the food industry.
This was 1968 and things were very primitive in those days. I started my working career making a grand total of $1.00 an hour. Bobby Keg had started out at $.90 an hour, but now made $1.10 because of his longevity and possible merit work. Heath had begun a few weeks before me and made $1.00, too.
McDonalds wasn’t as popular then as it is now. It was still a relatively new concept. People didn’t eat out as much then. There were no happy meals, Egg McMuffins, cookies, salads, ice cream cones. No breakfast items, BBQ sandwiches or even chicken. It was fairly simple. The menu was hamburgers, cheeseburgers, french fries, fish sandwiches, double hamburgers, double cheeseburgers and drinks: root beer, coke, orange, milk shakes and milk.
You poured the coke and root beer out of a big barrell that resembled something akin to a German beer keg. The orange was in a big transparent bowl that swished the imitation juice around and around. The shakes were disapointing to me; I was used to those delicious home-made shakes from Miss Portia's, ye old ice cream shoppe of our day. These shakes were a pathetic imitation of those. You’d squirt the juice, either chocolate or strawberry into your cup and then add soft vanilla ice cream that came from a spout. Then you’d place them on rhe mixer and let them twirl away.
That was our menu. Incredible as it seems now, we had no lettuce or tomatoes. Period. There was no such animal. Since I’m from the South, lived in the South all those 16 years, I found it hard to tell some of my fellow southerners that we didn’t have lettuce or tomatoes for their hamburgers.
“Give me a burger with lettuce and tomato, boy,” some redneck would say as he placed his order.
“We don’t have any, sir,” I would mumble trying hard to sound professional, but my voice would retreat to its pre-puberty roots.
These folks would look incredulous, and I would feel like a damn fool. If they didn’t void the order and walk out, the next worst-case scenario was when you handed them a burger the size of a postage stamp.
“Where’s my burger, boy?”
“Somewhere camoflauged inside your bun, mister.”
“Shit.”
You notice I had graduated to the counter, taking orders. It was the glamour job to all us grill men and spuds men. Spuds men worked the french fries. They were made from fresh potatoes in those days. And popular. And good. And smelly in the summer. A lot of rotten potatoes.
Yeah, the glamour job. Working the counter, taking orders, and, hey, you didn’t get all that sweaty and dirty. It was the ultimate move up. However, after you worked the counter a few weeks, you wanted desperatley back on the grill. At any cost. You were tied down when on the counter; you could always sneak a fag break on the grill. That’s what we called cigarettes in those days. Now, you probably need to come up with another term.
The abuse you recieved from customers was another factor in loathing front-end duty. Too, you had to keep the front end spotless.
One of my first managers, who wore red caps-the peon employees wore white- was a heavy man named Mr. Skinner. He had a way with words and used catchy rhyming slogans to motivate us.
“Mr. Catfish,” talking to yours truly and always by your surname, “you got time to lean, you got time to clean.” And my favorite: “You got time to gripe, you got time to wipe."
And we griped and we wiped. But we didn’t lean, because we were always cleaning. That was one of the sucessful formulas of McDonald. The place looked clean. And the bathrooms were kept clean. The illusion was in place. Even though we had a serious roach problem at the time.
One incident happened that I have never forgotton. The customer was a felow student at Rowdy High. He was in the ROTC, a big guy, senior, and he had a ferocious appetite. I took his order. Five hamburgers, two fries and a large coke. He got his order and had a seat in the lobby on one of those round spinning stools, that are no longer in existance. After about ten minutes, he sauntered back to the counter and motioned to the bottom of his coke. There in the bottom, along with a few ice cubes, was a big dead cockroach.
“What can I do to make it up to you, sir?” I asked praying my voice wouldn’t break from the pressure.
In a split second he requested another large coke. I gave him one. And he was on his happy way. I couldn’t believe it.
The counter was where it was at. That was a term we used in those days. You couldn’t be a dummy to work there, either. No computers to add the totals. You added the items on the order form, or if you were a whiz in math, you added the total in your head. Me and Karl Klapman were prodigies in this regard. We would add the orders in our head as we were bagging the order. We were really fast, and this was really an advantage during the busy lunch rush. However, with the advent of computer technology, this has become a lost art. It has probably saved McDonalds millions of dollars, too. Not many people would question your addition, mainly, because they were too damn dumb, but, maybe, we didn’t make that many mistakes.
There are many stories to tell, but it all started when crusty Emile chided me for dropping those buns. Emile turned out to be a good guy, and Iiked him alot, but where would I be today if I had dropped a few more buns on the floor? Cheese on twelve?
I dropped a couple of hamburger buns on the floor. The older gentleman in his fifties noticed my faux pas and reacted quickly. He offered me some fatherly advice.
“Do that again, boy, and you’ll be fired,’ he scowled as he bit down on the pipe that he seldom lit.
“Yes sir,” I countered meekly. That’s all I knew to say; I was a little shy and intimidated by this bastion of authority.
Then he in question was my boss, who also happened to be the owner of the store, Emile Shoeman, a nice Irish name if I ever heard one. We were at the Golden Arches, better known as McDonalds, and it was my first day on the job. I had just turned 16 a few months earlier, and I was the new employee and all the new guys started on the grill, our initiation. We had to toast the buns, twelve at a time. Then dress the burgers. A splotch of mustard and a heavy dose of ketchup. Then a small kosher dill pickle of top of the condiment mess.
They gave me an apron, shirt, and hat and pointed me to the grill. I had been on the job about 10 minutes when I dropped two buns on the floor and Emile was on me faster than stink on the ship.
I was really nervous, now. Emile, however, blew off the buns then wiped them on his trousers and plopped them back on the grill, while muttering his aforementioned soliloquy. I was really learning the secrets to American buisness and how to run a super-duper food cost. You don’t waste nothing in the food industry. And you don’t drop buns on the linoleum when the owner’s looking.
Emile had called me the night before. I had been recommended by my friends Heathcliff Murque and Bobus Bobby Keg, who also worked there, and who were my buddies.
“Start work tommorow,” he said hesitantly. I sensed he thought I’d be a dud, but hired me because of my good references.
I made it through that first night, but in retrospect, I wished I had dropped some more buns, or had done the unmentionable: dropped a few burgers on the floor. It’s hard to blow dirt, hair and grime off a burger that’s landed splat, flat on the greasy tiles. But I’m afraid I was destined to be in the food industry.
This was 1968 and things were very primitive in those days. I started my working career making a grand total of $1.00 an hour. Bobby Keg had started out at $.90 an hour, but now made $1.10 because of his longevity and possible merit work. Heath had begun a few weeks before me and made $1.00, too.
McDonalds wasn’t as popular then as it is now. It was still a relatively new concept. People didn’t eat out as much then. There were no happy meals, Egg McMuffins, cookies, salads, ice cream cones. No breakfast items, BBQ sandwiches or even chicken. It was fairly simple. The menu was hamburgers, cheeseburgers, french fries, fish sandwiches, double hamburgers, double cheeseburgers and drinks: root beer, coke, orange, milk shakes and milk.
You poured the coke and root beer out of a big barrell that resembled something akin to a German beer keg. The orange was in a big transparent bowl that swished the imitation juice around and around. The shakes were disapointing to me; I was used to those delicious home-made shakes from Miss Portia's, ye old ice cream shoppe of our day. These shakes were a pathetic imitation of those. You’d squirt the juice, either chocolate or strawberry into your cup and then add soft vanilla ice cream that came from a spout. Then you’d place them on rhe mixer and let them twirl away.
That was our menu. Incredible as it seems now, we had no lettuce or tomatoes. Period. There was no such animal. Since I’m from the South, lived in the South all those 16 years, I found it hard to tell some of my fellow southerners that we didn’t have lettuce or tomatoes for their hamburgers.
“Give me a burger with lettuce and tomato, boy,” some redneck would say as he placed his order.
“We don’t have any, sir,” I would mumble trying hard to sound professional, but my voice would retreat to its pre-puberty roots.
These folks would look incredulous, and I would feel like a damn fool. If they didn’t void the order and walk out, the next worst-case scenario was when you handed them a burger the size of a postage stamp.
“Where’s my burger, boy?”
“Somewhere camoflauged inside your bun, mister.”
“Shit.”
You notice I had graduated to the counter, taking orders. It was the glamour job to all us grill men and spuds men. Spuds men worked the french fries. They were made from fresh potatoes in those days. And popular. And good. And smelly in the summer. A lot of rotten potatoes.
Yeah, the glamour job. Working the counter, taking orders, and, hey, you didn’t get all that sweaty and dirty. It was the ultimate move up. However, after you worked the counter a few weeks, you wanted desperatley back on the grill. At any cost. You were tied down when on the counter; you could always sneak a fag break on the grill. That’s what we called cigarettes in those days. Now, you probably need to come up with another term.
The abuse you recieved from customers was another factor in loathing front-end duty. Too, you had to keep the front end spotless.
One of my first managers, who wore red caps-the peon employees wore white- was a heavy man named Mr. Skinner. He had a way with words and used catchy rhyming slogans to motivate us.
“Mr. Catfish,” talking to yours truly and always by your surname, “you got time to lean, you got time to clean.” And my favorite: “You got time to gripe, you got time to wipe."
And we griped and we wiped. But we didn’t lean, because we were always cleaning. That was one of the sucessful formulas of McDonald. The place looked clean. And the bathrooms were kept clean. The illusion was in place. Even though we had a serious roach problem at the time.
One incident happened that I have never forgotton. The customer was a felow student at Rowdy High. He was in the ROTC, a big guy, senior, and he had a ferocious appetite. I took his order. Five hamburgers, two fries and a large coke. He got his order and had a seat in the lobby on one of those round spinning stools, that are no longer in existance. After about ten minutes, he sauntered back to the counter and motioned to the bottom of his coke. There in the bottom, along with a few ice cubes, was a big dead cockroach.
“What can I do to make it up to you, sir?” I asked praying my voice wouldn’t break from the pressure.
In a split second he requested another large coke. I gave him one. And he was on his happy way. I couldn’t believe it.
The counter was where it was at. That was a term we used in those days. You couldn’t be a dummy to work there, either. No computers to add the totals. You added the items on the order form, or if you were a whiz in math, you added the total in your head. Me and Karl Klapman were prodigies in this regard. We would add the orders in our head as we were bagging the order. We were really fast, and this was really an advantage during the busy lunch rush. However, with the advent of computer technology, this has become a lost art. It has probably saved McDonalds millions of dollars, too. Not many people would question your addition, mainly, because they were too damn dumb, but, maybe, we didn’t make that many mistakes.
There are many stories to tell, but it all started when crusty Emile chided me for dropping those buns. Emile turned out to be a good guy, and Iiked him alot, but where would I be today if I had dropped a few more buns on the floor? Cheese on twelve?
Friday, December 23, 2005
"Merry Christmas"
From Kitty; Charlie Jr.; Katlain; Penny Lane, our trusty canine; Neil Diamond, our black cat; and yours truly, we want to wish all of you a Merry, Merry Christmas.
Thanks to me pals Bbq and Hoots, Hoots and Bbq, who both have inspired me to greater heights in the past.
And to me pals Slippery and Rockhead, who seem to enjoy the mad musings of the demented catfish.
And in case they're viewing Merry Christmas to my sister, Olga, the left-wing liberal extremist of the clan and her daughter, Katherine; Amberoonie and her family including Simba [ see Penny Lane and Neil Diamond ]; Kitty's mom, Babe, and her brother, Francois; and all of my crazy relatives who inhabit various domiciles throughout this great land of ours.
And if I've left anybody out, I apologize in advance.
Have a cool Yule! v.c. and clan
Thursday, December 22, 2005
"We Have All The Time In The World"
George Lazenby [ WHO? ] replaces Sean Connery in "On Her Majesty's Secret Service." Alas, George played Bond only once.
P.S. The villain was played by Telly Savalas. Who loves ya, baby?
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
"Sickbay"
Tonite I learned something. Sickbay is spelled as one word. I am currently in that predicamnet and don't feel so good. Boo hoo.
Hopefully, the fish will make a speedy recovery via meds, water, and food.
Gimme shelter, v.c.
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
"The Thing From Another World"
One of my favourite sci-fi movies of all time. Chronicled many a time on The Pond. Why? It takes place on the frozen tundra of Anarctica in sub zero temps. So, a cozy setting. Two, it is from the 50's, and 3) it is shot in glorious black and white.
James Arness plays the alien carrot from outer space, long before he began his stint as Marshall Dillon with Chester and Miss Kitty. [ no relation to my wife of umpteen years ]
Seems John Carpenter the director of "Halloween" likes it, too. And he did his remake with Kurt Russell in the 80's. I like Carpenter's foray, but I gotta go with the original.
Gimme shelter, v.c.
Monday, December 19, 2005
Sunday, December 18, 2005
"Per The Barbecue Man...."
There will be no pix tonite. No witty? commentary. The Pond is kaput. Fini.' For the evening.
The Aunt Mad Chronicles will continue soon. v.c.
P.S. Teaser. Aunt Mad, sans bra, is hanging up the wash on her back porch. Showing off those big titties powdered with Bloomingdale's finest.
The Aunt Mad Chronicles will continue soon. v.c.
P.S. Teaser. Aunt Mad, sans bra, is hanging up the wash on her back porch. Showing off those big titties powdered with Bloomingdale's finest.
Saturday, December 17, 2005
Friday, December 16, 2005
"The Fish As A Yuppie, er, Guppie"
My Aunt Mad was a hoot, a closet nudist, and had big titties. She was proud of them and used to dust them with powder she purchased at Bloomingdales.
She could also pee for minutes.
"I gotta squeeze my sponge," she used to say on one of our jaunts to the country in her Chevy Bel-Air. We wouldn't bother looking for a gas station. She would pull over on the side of the road, find a grassy noll, squat, and pee, er, squeeze her sponge for minutes, it seemed.
"Want a banana split, l'il fella," she always asked as we headed to Monday's Lake. I'm guessing here, but my weight fluctuations and addiction to sugar may have been formulated here. I would get a banana split on the way, and another one on the way back.
Monday's Lake was deep into the country and took an hour to get there, motoring down the interstate. A tree hung over a small creek. And perfect for an adolescent in search of adventures. Sometimes we'd take Bogus Bobby with us, but when he almost drowned in another lake a few years prior, and Aunt Mad had to make a daring rescue to save his life, we didn't always bring him along.
"Don't slam the door....Goddammit, I told 'em not to slam the goddamn door."
Aunt Mad would pick us up after school in her chevy. Me and Bogus in the front. Sheena and Sandra in the back seat. Sandra was tall for her age but infamous for slamming the goddamn door. It would make Aunt Mad, well, mad. Really mad.
Sheena, my kindergarten love, would slam the goddamn door each time she departed the back seat. And Aunt Mad never failed to get pissed and begin her diatribe. She always wanted to know aloud why they "slammed the goddamn door." But it happened every day on the way home from school, so she should have been expecting it.
I would always sit there as my friends departed the Bel-Air hoping they wouldn't slam "the goddamn door," but like clockwork, the goddamn door would get slammed. In hindsight walking home would have been a more viable option, or perhaps I could have said, "Sandra, Sheena, don't slam the goddamn door when you get out the car, cos Aunt Mad don't like it when you slam the goddamn door."
"I'll show you mine, if you'll show me yours."
Bogus was 11 months older than me. He lived next door, and I would see him from afar and vice-versa, but we didn't really meet until we enrolled in Guilotine Elementary as kindergarteners. On the first day of school we walked home with our moms and instantly became best buddies. We were at that curious age and I asked to see his heiney if he showed me his. So we ventured out to the abandoned warehouse behind my upstairs apartment and showed each other our buttox. Not sure where Aunt Mad was, but this time frame precluded the slamming of the goddamn door.
"I'll never buy you another goddamn gingerbread man again."
Aunt Mad had taken me and Bogus Bobby to Sears and told us to stay in the car while she purchased a quick item.
"Stay in the car; I'll be right back."
Well, kids can be kids so we thumbed our noses at Aunt Mad's instructions and left the car. We went into Sears and rode the escalators up and down. We were so enthralled in our adventures that we lost track of time. When we returned to the car, Aunt Mad was pissed more than I had ever seen her. I wished Sheena and Sandra were there to slam the goddamn car doors to divert her attention, but, alas, they were nowhere to be found.
"Get in the goddamn car."
We whimpered into the back seat.
"Where have you been, god dammit. I told you to stay in the goddamn car. I had the goddamn police looking for you. Won't listen to a goddamn thing. You [ me ] are the most hard-headed kid I've ever seen.
"Eat these goddamn gingerbread men, cos I ain't ever buying you another goddamn thing." [ throws the goddamn sack of gingerbread men into the goddamn back seat ]
I was feeling bad, guilty, and sad. I knew she would buy me more gingerbread men with the little raisins for eyes and buttons down its front, but we-I- had let her down. And I felt bad. Not sure how Bogie felt. But we heard a lot more god damns before we got home.
"I'm gonna shave my head and go down the railroad backwards."
One of Aunt Mad's favorite sayings. It was said in a humourous vein, but it meant all options had been exhausted, and the only recourse was shaving one's head and going down the railroad backwards.
"Your goddamn dinner will be ready in a jiffy."
I turned on the old black and white t.v. to watch "Amos and Andy," as Aunt Mad made us dinner in her quaint, crackerbox kitchen. Country fried steak with Heinz 57, cream style corn, crinkle-cut fries, rolls with the seeds on top drenched in butter and iced tea was the standard fare Monday nite's at Aunt Mad's house. The tv lineup included "The Lucy Show," "Red Skelton," and "Petticoat Junction." Ah, memories. btw, Aunt Mad was a goddamn good cook, as well.
"She ain't here. She's gone to Edowah Diddly."
Prank call. Solicitation. Long lost friend or relative. It didn't matter to Aunt Mad when an unwanted caller tried to ring her house via the telephone.
"Heetomahotomastinkarinkyfarmerdinkysallybunkawinktomanipcatsingsongkittywontchacowmeo."
No one in the family knew what in the hell this phrase meant or whether she invented it or not, but Aunt Mad reached icon status by muttering this sing-song phrase way back inna day.
Aunt Mad was a hoot, an icon, and my Great Aunt. She loved me dearly. And I loved her. Even if she did intimidate with all the "GODDAMNS." Big titties and all. Closet nudist? Maybe in the next installment.
She could also pee for minutes.
"I gotta squeeze my sponge," she used to say on one of our jaunts to the country in her Chevy Bel-Air. We wouldn't bother looking for a gas station. She would pull over on the side of the road, find a grassy noll, squat, and pee, er, squeeze her sponge for minutes, it seemed.
Monday's Lake was deep into the country and took an hour to get there, motoring down the interstate. A tree hung over a small creek. And perfect for an adolescent in search of adventures. Sometimes we'd take Bogus Bobby with us, but when he almost drowned in another lake a few years prior, and Aunt Mad had to make a daring rescue to save his life, we didn't always bring him along.
"Don't slam the door....Goddammit, I told 'em not to slam the goddamn door."
Aunt Mad would pick us up after school in her chevy. Me and Bogus in the front. Sheena and Sandra in the back seat. Sandra was tall for her age but infamous for slamming the goddamn door. It would make Aunt Mad, well, mad. Really mad.
Sheena, my kindergarten love, would slam the goddamn door each time she departed the back seat. And Aunt Mad never failed to get pissed and begin her diatribe. She always wanted to know aloud why they "slammed the goddamn door." But it happened every day on the way home from school, so she should have been expecting it.
I would always sit there as my friends departed the Bel-Air hoping they wouldn't slam "the goddamn door," but like clockwork, the goddamn door would get slammed. In hindsight walking home would have been a more viable option, or perhaps I could have said, "Sandra, Sheena, don't slam the goddamn door when you get out the car, cos Aunt Mad don't like it when you slam the goddamn door."
"I'll show you mine, if you'll show me yours."
Bogus was 11 months older than me. He lived next door, and I would see him from afar and vice-versa, but we didn't really meet until we enrolled in Guilotine Elementary as kindergarteners. On the first day of school we walked home with our moms and instantly became best buddies. We were at that curious age and I asked to see his heiney if he showed me his. So we ventured out to the abandoned warehouse behind my upstairs apartment and showed each other our buttox. Not sure where Aunt Mad was, but this time frame precluded the slamming of the goddamn door.
"I'll never buy you another goddamn gingerbread man again."
Aunt Mad had taken me and Bogus Bobby to Sears and told us to stay in the car while she purchased a quick item.
"Stay in the car; I'll be right back."
Well, kids can be kids so we thumbed our noses at Aunt Mad's instructions and left the car. We went into Sears and rode the escalators up and down. We were so enthralled in our adventures that we lost track of time. When we returned to the car, Aunt Mad was pissed more than I had ever seen her. I wished Sheena and Sandra were there to slam the goddamn car doors to divert her attention, but, alas, they were nowhere to be found.
"Get in the goddamn car."
We whimpered into the back seat.
"Where have you been, god dammit. I told you to stay in the goddamn car. I had the goddamn police looking for you. Won't listen to a goddamn thing. You [ me ] are the most hard-headed kid I've ever seen.
"Eat these goddamn gingerbread men, cos I ain't ever buying you another goddamn thing." [ throws the goddamn sack of gingerbread men into the goddamn back seat ]
I was feeling bad, guilty, and sad. I knew she would buy me more gingerbread men with the little raisins for eyes and buttons down its front, but we-I- had let her down. And I felt bad. Not sure how Bogie felt. But we heard a lot more god damns before we got home.
"I'm gonna shave my head and go down the railroad backwards."
One of Aunt Mad's favorite sayings. It was said in a humourous vein, but it meant all options had been exhausted, and the only recourse was shaving one's head and going down the railroad backwards.
"Your goddamn dinner will be ready in a jiffy."
I turned on the old black and white t.v. to watch "Amos and Andy," as Aunt Mad made us dinner in her quaint, crackerbox kitchen. Country fried steak with Heinz 57, cream style corn, crinkle-cut fries, rolls with the seeds on top drenched in butter and iced tea was the standard fare Monday nite's at Aunt Mad's house. The tv lineup included "The Lucy Show," "Red Skelton," and "Petticoat Junction." Ah, memories. btw, Aunt Mad was a goddamn good cook, as well.
"She ain't here. She's gone to Edowah Diddly."
Prank call. Solicitation. Long lost friend or relative. It didn't matter to Aunt Mad when an unwanted caller tried to ring her house via the telephone.
"Heetomahotomastinkarinkyfarmerdinkysallybunkawinktomanipcatsingsongkittywontchacowmeo."
No one in the family knew what in the hell this phrase meant or whether she invented it or not, but Aunt Mad reached icon status by muttering this sing-song phrase way back inna day.
Aunt Mad was a hoot, an icon, and my Great Aunt. She loved me dearly. And I loved her. Even if she did intimidate with all the "GODDAMNS." Big titties and all. Closet nudist? Maybe in the next installment.
Thursday, December 15, 2005
"It's Just a Fantasy"
What are the odds? I got an e mail tonite from hoots buddy and hoots budy. Two different people. Truth or Dare? er, Truth or Fiction? Thanks to the hootster!
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
"The Fish As A Yuppie, er, Guppie"
The fish [ yours truly ] has always liked to write. Even as a youngster of 10 years old, I started an opus by hunting and pecking the keys on an old Royal typewriter owned by my Aunt Mad. More about her later.
The story line involved 3 sailors who cruised the seven seas having adventures. Tiger Sharkey, Billy Budd, and Ivan Trotsky. The writing was atrocious but what can you expect from an adolescent. For some reason I liked to have dinner scenes.
The men were tired and famished. Having had numerous adventures during the day, the men were hungry. It was Tiger Sharkey's turn to cook: "Hey, rustle us up some food, Tiger. We are starving," said Billy.
"Coming right up, men."
The festive dinner consisted of salted pork, beans, and toasted biscuits.
"Yum, that was good," Ivan said.
"Yeah. Good night, men. Let's get some rest, because I think new adventures loom on the horizon. We will travel to the Islands of Bagueeze in the morning aboard our vessel, the Hoki Juan, tomorrow," Tiger said as he suppressed a big yawn.
"Darn good meal, Tiger."
The next day Tiger awoke the others to the smell of bacon, eggs and beans.
.....to be continued
The story line involved 3 sailors who cruised the seven seas having adventures. Tiger Sharkey, Billy Budd, and Ivan Trotsky. The writing was atrocious but what can you expect from an adolescent. For some reason I liked to have dinner scenes.
The men were tired and famished. Having had numerous adventures during the day, the men were hungry. It was Tiger Sharkey's turn to cook: "Hey, rustle us up some food, Tiger. We are starving," said Billy.
"Coming right up, men."
The festive dinner consisted of salted pork, beans, and toasted biscuits.
"Yum, that was good," Ivan said.
"Yeah. Good night, men. Let's get some rest, because I think new adventures loom on the horizon. We will travel to the Islands of Bagueeze in the morning aboard our vessel, the Hoki Juan, tomorrow," Tiger said as he suppressed a big yawn.
"Darn good meal, Tiger."
The next day Tiger awoke the others to the smell of bacon, eggs and beans.
.....to be continued
Monday, December 12, 2005
"The Amazing Colossal Man"
My Bond picture didn't turn out, ergo, the title. Also, the editor is tired and sleepy and has no creative spark tonite.
Sunday, December 11, 2005
"Strawberry Fields Forever"
I am appreciative of all the acclaim bequeathed on John this week. It's unbelievable how fate brought the 4 Liverpudians together and how they literally changed the world.
I remember watching the tv screen along with 75 million other fellow Americans that nite on February 1964. They had me at hello.
Saturday, December 10, 2005
"Steel and Glass"
I found this on google. It tells the sequence of events on December 8, 1980. And how John and Yoko had been recording "Walking on Thin Ice" that ominous day. Sometimes synchronicity sux.
Friday, December 09, 2005
"Thanks, John"
I loved the music. And I listened to "Revolver" on the way home tonite via old Betsy. What a great L.P. [ long playing ] Love the strings on Eleanor Rigby. Love the whole thing.
When John decided to come out of the kitchen and record again, his wife, the enigmatic Yoko Ono, wrote some songs as well. She was scheduled to release "Walking On Thin Ice" as a single. An eerie foreshadowing of events to come.
"Walking on Thin Ice":
Walking on thin ice
I'm paying the price
For throwing the dice in the air
Why must we learn it the hard way
And play the game of life with your heart
I gave you my knife
You gave me my life
Like a gush of wind in my hair
Why do we forget what's been said
And play the game of life with our hearts
I may cry some day
But the tears will dry whichever way
And when our hearts return to ashes
It'll be just a story
It'll be just a story
"I knew a girl
Who tried to walk across the lake
'Course it was winter and all this was ice
That's a hell of a thing to do, you know
They say this lake is as big as the Ocean
I wonder if she knew about it
And, yes, I dug it!
Thursday, December 08, 2005
"Glass Onion"
John Lennon was planning to tour again back in the day of 1980. But, as we all know, he never had the chance, as an assassin shot and killed him. Ironically, the perpetrator once attended Columbia High School, a mile from H.W., my old digs.
John penned some of the greatest songs of all time, imho. Here are a couple of his best. Once again in my ho.
She's not a girl who misses much
Do do do do do do do do, oh yeah
She's well acquainted with the touch of the velvet hand
Like a lizard on a window pane
The man in the crowd with the multicoloured mirrors
On his hobnail boots
Lying with his eyes while his hands are busy
Working overtime
A soap impression of his wife which he ate
And donated to the National Trust
and:
Half of what I say is meaningless
But I say it just to reach you, Julia
Julia, Julia, oceanchild, calls me
So I sing a song of love, Julia
Julia, seashell eyes, windy smile, calls me
So I sing a song of love, Julia
Her hair of floating sky is shimmering, glimmering,
In the sun
Julia, Julia, morning moon, touch me
So I sing a song of love, Julia
When I cannot sing my heart
I can only speak my mind, Julia
Julia, sleeping sand, silent cloud, touch me
So I sing a song of love, Julia
Hum hum hum hum...calls me
So I sing a song of love for Julia, Julia, Julia
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
"Gimme Some Truth"
As anyone knows who peruses the Pond with any consistency, my favourite band of all time is "The Fab 4." Back in the day, John and Paul delighted yours truly together as a song-writing duo, and later when they went solo. John with the acerbic wit and introspective musings; and Paul, the balladeer, who could also belt out a "Helter Skelter."
This year marks the 25th anniversary of his death. I had been the Manager of H.W. for little over a year at the time, so 25 years seems like a looooooong time ago. Yet in the grand scheme of things it's a drop in the bucket.
John wrote some great lyrics and some quite bizarre ones. Not many people know of his "Woman is the Nigger of the World" song, for example. The lyrics for "Gimme Some Truth" are Great. Apologies to Tony the Tiger. Written during the hey-day of Dick "Sock It To Me" Nixon, circa 1971.
No short-haired, yellow-bellied, son of tricky dicky
Is gonna mother hubbard soft soap me
With just a pocketful of hope
and....
I’m sick to death of seeing things
From tight-lipped, condescending, mama’s little chauvinists
All I want is the truth
Just gimme some truth now
I’ve had enough of watching scenes
Of schizophrenic, ego-centric, paranoiac, prima-donnas
All I want is the truth now
Just gimme some truth
and there was "God:"
God is a concept,
By which we measure,
Our pain,
I don't believe in magic,
I don't believe in I-ching,
I don't believe in bible,
I don't believe in tarot,
I don't believe in Hitler,
I don't believe in Jesus,
I don't believe in Kennedy,
I don't believe in Buddha,
I don't believe in mantra,
I don't believe in Gita,
I don't believe in yoga,
I don't believe in kings,
I don't believe in Elvis,
I don't believe in Zimmerman,
I don't believe in Beatles,
I just believe in me,
Yoko and me,
And that's reality.
I grew up listening to these tunes. If I have a creative side, it explains my attraction to Lennon/McCartney. Before John died, he had decided to tour again. What a treat we all missed, because I would have travelled anywhere to see him. It would have been just like starting over. v.c.
P.S. In My Life
There are places I’ll remember
All my life though some have changed
Some forever not for better
Some have gone and some remain
All these places have their moments
With lovers and friends I still can recall
Some are dead and some are living
In my life I’ve loved them all
But of all these friends and lovers
There is no one compares with you
And these memories lose their meaning
When I think of love as something new
Though I know I’ll never lose affection
For people and things that went before
I know I’ll often stop and think about them
In my life I love you more
Though I know I’ll never lose affection
For people and things that went before
I know I’ll often stop and think about them
In my life I love you more
In my life I love you more
Monday, December 05, 2005
"Watching the Wheels Revisited"
It's a cold day on the Pond; the weather outside is frightful [ i.e. rain and cold and dreary ] but inside it's so delightful.
Kitty is upstairs wrestling with her voluminous paperwork; Penny lies beside her resting after devouring a quick snack of dogfood and a coppola of chicken nuggests provided by yours truly; Neil, our black cat, is waiting for the nite time bugs to enter the house, so he can play with them; Charlie is at Hard Knocks High School learing the 3 r's; Katlain is mired in her perpetual daydream of becoming a famous rock star, allah Joan Jett, Brenda Carlisle, and Babs Streisand, er, the girls from "The Bangles;" and I'm just sittin' here watchin' the wheels go 'round and 'round.
Old Betsy, my ride who takes me to and fro, is in the shop getting an oil change; having a diagnostic checkup-seems ye old "check engine light" came on unannounced;and the old gal's anti-freeze is leaking. A slow one at that.
As the keys get pecked into oblivion, I'm watching an old b/w thrilla with Dana Andrews and Joan Fontaine entitled "Beyond a Reasonable Doubt." Damn, they just fried a scumbag via the electric chair at the beginning of the movie, while they were rolling the credits. The "chair" sequences in "The Green Mile" with Tom Hanks were more believable than this one. "Reasonable" was made in 1956 ergo the difference.
They really smoke the cigarettes in these old yarns. Dana has lit up 4 in the first five minutes even lighting one from another. [ ye old "chain smoke routine to which we smokers have all been guilty ] And Joan smokes, too. And her dad is smoking a pipe. Seems the jist of the story concerns "capitol punishment," yea or nay. Hey, they had issues in the 50's, too. Smoking was evidently way down the list.
I love days like this. Rainy and cold. Not a day out for man nor beast. It's a good day to write, but here's hoping for a massive snowstorm to really get in the mood. Here lately this writer has been experiencing difficulties in organizing thoughts onto paper or the computer screen. My memory cells drift back to November 2003, when I posted a reply to pictru on the FRG Board. My buddy hoots replied to my reply by saying:
"Cat, if the day comes when you don't have a Piccadilly environoment to keep your blood pressure up, you may find your writing talents slipping. Your style lies somewhere between poetry and prose, with just enough reality to defy classification as either fiction or non-fiction. Very gifted. Keep it up."
Maybe he nailed me, as I don't have the rowdy environs that plagued me for 30 years. My main strength was always bouncing off someone. When Slippery, my old schoolmate from Rowdy High, responded this week to one of my posts, my keybored, as if on automatic pilot, hammered out a reply in no time.
So, dear reader, if you want the cat to get on a roll, you've got to point him in the write direction.
Btw, Kitty is through with her voluminous work dreaming of whisking her life back to the future circa 1969; Penny wants to go outside while dreaming of Chick-Fil-A nuggets; Neil is taking another nap while dreaming of bugs;
Charlie just got home from Rowdy, er, Hardknocks High, dreaming of kool chicks and life one day without school; and Katlain is playing air guitar while fantasizing of becoming the next Madonna; and I'm just watchin' the wheels. No longer ridin' on the merry-go-round; I just had to let 'em go.
The following foray into the infantile is submitted for your approval and perusal.
P.S. Tonite's foray included an exaggerated use of semi-colons.
P.S.S. Good guy Dana Andrews' perfect murder scheme backfires and is sentenced to prison and a date with the chair. We wish him well, as cigarettes are better than money in the joint. Maybe Joan Fontaine quit the nicotine habit after her boyfriend [ Dana ] almost got away with duping her and the d.a.
Kitty is upstairs wrestling with her voluminous paperwork; Penny lies beside her resting after devouring a quick snack of dogfood and a coppola of chicken nuggests provided by yours truly; Neil, our black cat, is waiting for the nite time bugs to enter the house, so he can play with them; Charlie is at Hard Knocks High School learing the 3 r's; Katlain is mired in her perpetual daydream of becoming a famous rock star, allah Joan Jett, Brenda Carlisle, and Babs Streisand, er, the girls from "The Bangles;" and I'm just sittin' here watchin' the wheels go 'round and 'round.
Old Betsy, my ride who takes me to and fro, is in the shop getting an oil change; having a diagnostic checkup-seems ye old "check engine light" came on unannounced;and the old gal's anti-freeze is leaking. A slow one at that.
As the keys get pecked into oblivion, I'm watching an old b/w thrilla with Dana Andrews and Joan Fontaine entitled "Beyond a Reasonable Doubt." Damn, they just fried a scumbag via the electric chair at the beginning of the movie, while they were rolling the credits. The "chair" sequences in "The Green Mile" with Tom Hanks were more believable than this one. "Reasonable" was made in 1956 ergo the difference.
They really smoke the cigarettes in these old yarns. Dana has lit up 4 in the first five minutes even lighting one from another. [ ye old "chain smoke routine to which we smokers have all been guilty ] And Joan smokes, too. And her dad is smoking a pipe. Seems the jist of the story concerns "capitol punishment," yea or nay. Hey, they had issues in the 50's, too. Smoking was evidently way down the list.
I love days like this. Rainy and cold. Not a day out for man nor beast. It's a good day to write, but here's hoping for a massive snowstorm to really get in the mood. Here lately this writer has been experiencing difficulties in organizing thoughts onto paper or the computer screen. My memory cells drift back to November 2003, when I posted a reply to pictru on the FRG Board. My buddy hoots replied to my reply by saying:
"Cat, if the day comes when you don't have a Piccadilly environoment to keep your blood pressure up, you may find your writing talents slipping. Your style lies somewhere between poetry and prose, with just enough reality to defy classification as either fiction or non-fiction. Very gifted. Keep it up."
Maybe he nailed me, as I don't have the rowdy environs that plagued me for 30 years. My main strength was always bouncing off someone. When Slippery, my old schoolmate from Rowdy High, responded this week to one of my posts, my keybored, as if on automatic pilot, hammered out a reply in no time.
So, dear reader, if you want the cat to get on a roll, you've got to point him in the write direction.
Btw, Kitty is through with her voluminous work dreaming of whisking her life back to the future circa 1969; Penny wants to go outside while dreaming of Chick-Fil-A nuggets; Neil is taking another nap while dreaming of bugs;
Charlie just got home from Rowdy, er, Hardknocks High, dreaming of kool chicks and life one day without school; and Katlain is playing air guitar while fantasizing of becoming the next Madonna; and I'm just watchin' the wheels. No longer ridin' on the merry-go-round; I just had to let 'em go.
The following foray into the infantile is submitted for your approval and perusal.
P.S. Tonite's foray included an exaggerated use of semi-colons.
P.S.S. Good guy Dana Andrews' perfect murder scheme backfires and is sentenced to prison and a date with the chair. We wish him well, as cigarettes are better than money in the joint. Maybe Joan Fontaine quit the nicotine habit after her boyfriend [ Dana ] almost got away with duping her and the d.a.
"Funny Clip from Jay Leno"
Tyra Banks created a ratings smash by allowing a plastic surgeon to fill, er, feel her breasts on her television show. In order to assess if they were the real mccoys. Submitted for your approval:
Sunday, December 04, 2005
"Hunker Down, Eh?"
Congrats to the Dawgs who whupped the Tigers from L.S. and U. for the SEC championship. Questions answered:
1) Dawgs to the Suga!
2) Mark Richt ain't so dumb after all.
3) Hobnail Boots are back in chic.
4) Hershel Who?
5) Larry Munson is a happy camper.
Friday, December 02, 2005
"Macon County Line"
One of the most bizarre movies this writer has ever seen. Max Baer, son of the former heavyweight champ, starred and directed.
Haven't seen it in many moons. A far cry from "the cement pond."
"Auric Loves Only Gold" or "Who Knows The Symbol For Gold?" or "If You Said "Au" You Are Correct"
Shirley Bassey really belted out this tune from perhaps the most popular "Bond" ever. "Goldfinger" shot the series into the stratosphere.
P.S. I'll have a dry martini, light on the vermouth. "How would I like it?" "Of course, shaken not stirred."
Thursday, December 01, 2005
"After the Gold Rush"
Well, I dreamed I saw the silver spaceships flying'
in the yellow haze of the sun,
there were children crying' and colors flying'
all around the chosen ones
All in a dream, all in a dream the loading had begun.
Flying Mother Nature's silver seed to a new home in the sun.
Flying Mother Nature's silver seed to a new home.
[ Young, eh? ]
"Double-Naught Spy"
Synopsis
Under the spell of a James Bond movie, Jethro gives up his lifelong ambition to be a brain surgeon, and decides instead to become a "double-naught spy." He runs out and purchases what he thinks is the latest espionage paraphernalia, including a gadget-laden car that doesn't quite work as planned. Meanwhile, banker Drysdale's rival John Cushing (Roy Roberts) cooks up a scheme to convince Jed to put the Clampett millions in Cushing's bank.
Part one of a two-episode story arc, "Double Naught Jethro" first aired on March 3, 1965. ~ Hal Erickson, All Movie Guide
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
"Shaken Not Stirred"
From Russia with love is the second entry in the series, and it's one of the most interesting ones. The story, although complicated, is not as far-fetched as Dr. No, much more down to earth. It may be fair to say that From Russia with love is the only real cold-war spy thriller in the series.
A sinister organisation called SPECTRE make use of a Russian cypher clerk, a miss Tatiana Romanova, to seduce British agent James Bond. He is to steal a Russian decoder machine in Istanbul and escape back to the west. The thrilling Istanbul scenes find a dramatic climax on board of the Orient Express.
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